INFECTED (Click Your Poison)

by James Schannep

  You press forward, your tattered arm ripping free, and moan with pleasure. Soon you’ll be inside! You crawl through the shaft on all threes toward the hidden chewy center. Other gods and goddesses respond to your call and pile into the duct behind you.

  You tumble into the pawn shop, clattering into heirloom jewelry and ornamental knockoff samurai swords alike. There’s just so much junk in here. And guns. The sound of a shotgun pumping, the shell sliding into breach, greets you. Forgot about the guns, did we?

  Say what you will about pawn shop owners, they’re hearty bastards with a will to survive. They had to deal with zombie-like patrons long before your immortal coup d’état began. And they have guns—lots of guns.

  You move toward the proprietor with your one arm outstretched and your mouth open wide. Your uvula makes a wonderful aiming target. He clicks the trigger and blasts through your face with the fury only a twelve-gauge can deliver. But don’t worry, you did not die in vain. You breached his fortress, and dozens of your pantheon descend upon him as he struggles to reload.

  THE END

  Pharmaceuticals

  You follow the military man and the doctor toward the ingredients Deleon needs for his cure. Sims and Deleon start to look through the shelves. “What exactly am I looking for?” you ask.

  “Niacin,” Deleon replies. “Look for anything with vitamin B-12 on the label.”

  Sims spots something and holds up an industrial-sized pill bottle. “I’ve got a multivitamin.”

  “Bring it. I need the pure stuff, but maybe I can distill it. What I really need is a lab. Think Cooper will take me there?”

  “Prolly. I think she’s into you. She likes it when you challenge her. I can tell these things, so…”

  “Thanks, Casanova, but I’m not interested in creating more people just yet. Not until I’ve figured out how to save the ones that are here, anyhow.” Deleon’s watch alarm blares. You and Sims look around to see if it attracts any undead. Deleon resets the watch. “You mind watching the bathroom for me for a few?”

  “You time your shits?” Sims asks.

  “Beats being surprised, right?”

  As Deleon leaves, Sims whispers to you, “That’s not a bad idea…”

  After an awkward moment, Cooper shouts from afar, “Stockroom!”

  • Head to the stockroom.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Phoenix’s Office

  You enter the lion’s den, eyes cast down, trying not to attract his attention. You say something like, “Yo quiero moppa los flores,” and he’s busy enough to buy it. He waves you on and turns his back to you.

  “I don’t give a shit!” he screams into the phone. Luckily, he’s looking the other way so he doesn’t see your shocked look of disbelief. “No, we have not started human trials. There will be no goddamn human trials!”

  When you think “Doctor,” this is not the guy who comes to mind. He looks more like George Hamilton—fake tan, bleached teeth, slickly gelled hair—he’s clearly someone concerned about looks and aging. Makes sense, considering the product. Phoenix was obviously handsome in his youth, and still creates an impressive persona as a middle-aged man. He may no longer be a tiger, but he’s still a silver fox.

  “Absolutely the fuck not,” he continues. “Why? Because I’m not paying some college dropout $175 to take a drug that will make him live forever, that’s why. People pay me for that privilege, and there’s a little word called ‘MILLION’ in that equation. Look, the rat tests are perfect, and we’re moving forward without human trials. This thing is going wide on Monday. Either you do your job or I’ll find somebody else who likes money. That’s why you’re called ‘Distributor’ and I’m called ‘Doctor.’ Time to distribute; leave the science to me.”

  With that, he slams down the phone. You keep mopping, whistling so as to appear inconspicuous.

  “Dipshit,” he says to the phone. Then he looks up at you. “Say, you’re new here, right?”

  • “No hablo ingles.”

  • “I couldn’t help but hear you need human test subjects,” then slowly raise your hand to volunteer.

  • You point to his glass wall, say, “Omigod, what is THAT?” then scoop a stack of important-looking files into the trashcan attached to your mop bucket.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Playing Koi

  You walk around the destroyed house, unable to keep from looking as you pass by. Some sections of it are charred. What demolishes a house like that? Could’ve been some dynamite blown from within, or possibly something worse. Once people stop taking care of things—stop living—everything falls apart. How many houses sat empty as ticking time-bombs in the early days, filled with natural gases, only to be set off by some poor fool seeking shelter? You’ve been away from the world long enough so that threat shouldn’t matter… you hope.

  Around back, there’s a swimming pool. At least there was. Now it just looks like an extension of the overgrown lawn. If not for the concrete boundary, the swamp of a pool could have posed a falling hazard, leaving you caught in the thick algae that’s choking the pool from within. Something moves in the murk below. It’s entirely possible there are fish inside this man-made pond. Could be a good source of food. Do you want to fish the pool?

  • Sure, I could use a break. And nobody can sneak up on me out in the open.

  • I’ll pass. Hopefully there’re s’mores up in that tree house.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Poker Face

  Good choice. With its superior reach, the fire poker allows you to attack the undead fisherman without putting your hands precariously close to his face. The hook connects cleanly to the side of his head, cracking the skull and lodging into the brain with ease. The zombie instantly falls to the floor of the cabin—taking your poker with it.

  You look to claim your fire iron from the ghoul, but you have no time—his two fishing buddies follow him into the cabin and come toward you. You back away, trying to buy time with distance as you frantically brandish your hammer. But you won’t need the weapon.

  With what sounds like a small firecracker, the first zombie’s brain sprays out the front of his head. As he hits the ground, there’s another pop and the second zombie goes down. What just happened? Before you have time to put two and two together, the shooter runs into the cabin and with a sweep of the rifle, comes to point directly at you.

  It’s a teenage girl in paintball armor. “Are you bit?” she yells.

  You shake your head and raise your hands in reflex at having a gun pointed at you. She lowers the rifle and raises her mask. She’s cute, seventeen, and a redhead.

  “I go by Rosie. You know, the Riveter? World War II, sleeve rolled up, ‘We can do it,’ and all that? I’m sure you’ve seen the poster. Anyway, you look underequipped, and I could use somebody to watch my back while I sleep. We can stick together if you want, but fair warning—I’ll shoot ya as soon as you get bit. Whaddya say?”

  • “No offense, but you scare me. I’m kind of a loner anyway.”

  • “I think I’d be more worried not to have you on my team.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Posthistoric Mankind

  We began our history in caves and, poetically, you have chosen to end yours here as well. You find a lovely cavern, remote but still accessible by road, and make it home. Fortune must be on your side, because there’s a spring in the back that gives you all the water you could possibly need. You stay warm with blankets and your sleeping bag, and spend most of your time eating a bite of food every hour, counting down the minutes between each morsel.

  By some miracle, the days disappear without any visitors to your cave. But there’s no miracle multiplying the scant food you were able to bring with you, and you’re almost out. You could try foraging the local area, but you don’t know what’s out there.

  • I don’t care; I’d rather starve than be eaten.

  • I guess it’s time to go out and see what’s left of the world.

 
MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Power is Yours

  “So, are you an engineering buff or just here to break a sweat?” asks the gaunt man at the entrance to the power room. He’s naturally bald, with a friar-style haircut skirting his head at ear level. The sideburns taper into a thick brown beard. Seeing your confused look, he ushers you forward with a wave of one of his elbow-length electrical gloves. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.”

  You follow him down the dark corridor. At a natural fork, he stops and points toward the left. Further down, the hall opens into a room packed with large machinery. “We converted the prison’s generator room. It ran on diesel originally, but that attracts more zombs, and fuel is a limiting factor.” He takes the left fork and the path gets brighter and brighter until you enter a large room with two dozen stationary exercise bikes, some of which are currently in use. Televisions are set in front of the exercise units, and the room looks much like a twenty-four-hour fitness place at night.

  “We find it’s much more efficient to use manpower to generate electricity. And the psychological benefits are undeniable. Otherwise you really start to feel like, well, like you’re in a prison. So, whaddya you say? Care to let off some steam and generate a few watts for us?”

  • “Sure! Got any gym clothes for me?”

  • “I think I’ll go check out the ‘Happy Room.’ I could use some more pampering after this ordeal.”

  • “I’m just looking around—which way to the armory?”

  • “No time, sorry.” Straight to the “Command Post.” I bet Lucas and Rosie are already there.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Practice Like You Play

  The soldier’s mustache spreads out over a wide grin. “Finally, somebody who isn’t a pussy in this camp—excuse my French. Listen, Newjack, if you’re serious…” He steps out of the trailer to ensure the coast is clear. The sun pours down on the grass of the yard, but no one is within earshot. Returning to the shade of the trailer, he says, “I say we go on a fuckin’ rampage. My Humvee has a mounted fifty-cal, and I gotta be honest: I’ve got the itch in a bad way. Poor girl’s just been sittin’ out back. Whadda ya say, Newjack? Wanna go fuck up some zombs?”

  • “I call turret!”

  • “I’d love to see you in action; you looking for a driver?”

  • “Seems kinda dangerous. I think I’ll go check out the ‘Happy Room.’”

  • “No time, sorry.” Straight to the “Command Post.” I bet Lucas and Rosie are already there.

  • “Maybe another time—which way to the ‘Fitness/Power Room’?”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Psycho

  You’re stock-still in your sleeping bag, arms out and gripping the knife with potent fear. You hope your guest will somehow wander away, but that hope leaves when an undead hand—with black-painted fingernails—reaches into your tent through the open zipper. The hand gropes around, seeking and finding your sleeping bag, and you plunge your knife deep into it.

  Zombies don’t feel pain, but evidently the nerve endings do still serve a function; in this case, they tell the primitive brain, “Found something!” The other hand comes in, followed by the face. She’s dressed all in black, hair dyed to match, with skin as pale as the moon. A Wiccan. You wouldn’t know she was a zombie, save for the hungry eyes and the distinctive moan.

  You pull your knife out of the hand and stab furiously at her face. No blood flows from the wounds, and you turn her skin into gory shreds of pulp. Other hands paw at the nylon flaps of your tent—the attacker is not alone. She continues to squirm her way in, despite the gruesome injuries you inflict.

  Then, the worst happens. With so many zombies trying to get at you, the poles give way and your tent collapses. The air leaves your body, you cannot see anything, and there’s a zombie trapped inside with you. Helpless, you’re crushed and devoured by the group.

  THE END

  Rats!

  As you move down the halls of the Company, it strikes you that you’ve been given a rather wide berth as a janitor. No one’s watching your movements; you’re free to roam as you please. You’d think with such a controversial product, security would be tighter. Small startup, indeed. You wonder where they got their backing. Pharmaceutical? Military? Whatever it is, it wasn’t privately funded, which means the product will be going worldwide almost immediately.

  You make it to Rodent Testing, but the door requires “Level 3” access. Damn. You knock on the door—couldn’t hurt, right?

  A handsome young scientist, Dr. Lewis Deleon, opens the door. Deleon could be a candidate for a GQ model, but instead wears a lab coat for a living. He’s even got the studly five o’clock shadow. Either he’s tested some other beauty products before Gilgazyme ®, or he was inspired to make the formula in an effort to keep his good looks. It’s a chicken-or-egg kind of thing.

  “Hey, come on in,” he says with a warm smile. “I was just running a few tests, but you won’t be in the way.”

  You nod and push your mop bucket through, entering the secure area. There are several terrariums, lining opposite sides of the room, marked as either “Test Group” or “Control Group,” followed by a sequential alphanumeric and a date. You begin mopping the floor, but your eyes wander. The Gilgazyme ® formula is all over the place here—JACKPOT!

  • This is fly-on-the-wall level spying. Time to listen close…

  • “EWW—What’s wrong with that one?” you say to distract the good doctor, then pocket a nearby vial of formula.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Receiving Line

  You head out to the front of the hospital through the automatic doors and stare blankly across the parking lot. You stand at the half-circle where patients are normally dropped off, but you’re suddenly unsure what comes next. What were you doing, again? There’s the delicious smell of burning gasoline coming from somewhere… maybe you should investigate?

  “Excuse me, but can you—” someone asks. You turn toward the voice, a man propping up his wife. She’s been seriously injured, but not bitten. You’re not sure how, but you just know this.

  “Oh no, it’s one of them!” she calls out.

  That’s your cue. You lunge forward toward the man, but he won’t let go of his wife, so you just bite into him without any resistance. Sweet, savory, crunchy goodness. She falls to the ground despite his efforts to keep her upright. When she hits the pavement, she stays down. The blanket that was wrapped around her comes loose and the garden trough sticking into her leg twists.

  A crowd of fellow immortals comes out of the hospital to help you feed. The woman’s dying quickly, and it’s too hard to tell if she’ll be able to rise again; she may’ve lost too much blood. Either way, your work here is done.

  Seemingly from nowhere, another man runs out of the hospital. You grab his hospital gown and he whirls around from the force; your grip holds. You bite down on his arm—crunch. Wait, are those your teeth? You’ve just bitten into a prosthetic. He slips out of the hospital gown and runs stark naked down the street.

  Dropping his false arm, you rush to catch him, but he’s much faster. Eventually, you can’t see or smell him anymore. Oh well. Where to?

  • There’s a pawnshop nearby; maybe I can help these humans trade in their old life for the new.

  • Corner grocery. When hunting, hang out where your food feeds.

  • Follow the cars—you may be the tortoise, but the hare is bound to run out of gas sooner or later.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Red-Light Special

  The megastore lies ahead. It’s one of those buy-in-bulk-for-a-reduced-price warehouse types. The parking lot is eerily bare, a concrete savanna before you. “Think we’ll find food?” you ask.

  “It’s probably been raided,” the doctor answers. “But it doesn’t matter, we’re here for niacin.”

  You cross the parking lot and Deleon starts to pry open the door of the megastore, but it’s not locked. Looking inside, there’s a faint red glow
coming from within.

  “Emergency generator’s on. Still, get your flashlight out. I’d worry less about finding food and more about ending up as it. This must have been a hotspot in the early days—keep that axe handy.”

  You nod, flick your flashlight on and enter behind the doctor. The megastore is as much a disaster zone as the outside world, if not more so. Entire shelves are overturned. Food containers broken open, rotting. Describe it in a word? Raided.

  The place has an atmosphere the opposite of its day life. Jungle gyms and trampolines cast ominous shadows. DVD displays reflect your flashlight beam with devious glares. You start down an aisle, then—the shuffle of feet. Shoes squeal on linoleum flooring.

  Deleon nods to you to run with him. You both take off down the aisle and steps follow. So do labored breaths. You turn the corner, axe raised in preparation for mortal combat, only to be met by a man in a gas mask and several others.

  You only stop your attack because a blonde woman in the group screams. Deleon and the men halt at the sound of a living person as well, but another woman has to be restrained from attacking.

  She steps out of the crowd. Probably in her early thirties, though it’s certainly possible that the last few weeks have aged her. She’s dirty, just like you, but beautiful in a hard-as-nails sort of way. Black hair and blacker eyes. She wears an unbuttoned mechanic’s shirt with a fitted undershirt beneath. The embroidered nametag reads, “Cooper.”